


The Wait

by dorothydonne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Off-Stage Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorothydonne/pseuds/dorothydonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A divide has been growing between them for months, and Greg feels like he’s just waiting for the other shoe to drop. And then it does, though it’s far from what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wait

**Author's Note:**

> I combined two prompts from my Sherlockmas draw and this fic was the result. The prompts were:
> 
> 1\. Mycroft's been acting strange for the last month or so. Greg's been living with him as his partner for about six months, but is starting to feel like he did before his divorce - unwanted and alone. Confrontation happens. Mycroft ends up explaining. Fluffy happy ending.  
> 2\. Starts with Greg/Mycroft getting hurt on the job. Arguments ensue, possibly at hospital or whatever. fluffy ending.

To say Greg Lestrade was a bit of a disheveled mess would have been an understatement.

After years of working his way up the ladder on the force, he was used to sleepless nights and high-stress situations. He wouldn’t have ever made D.I. without those skills -- not to mention a near-constant supply of terrible coffee. And hell, he’d spent enough time chasing after Sherlock Holmes to expect some level of unpredictability in his life.

But he hadn’t been prepared for this.

He’d thought he was -- he was ready for a blowout, an end-all argument that would leave him sleeping on a mate’s couch for a few days, maybe scouting for a new flat close to the Yard. That’s what he thought it was all leading to. An out. The end. Goodbye.

Not to a hospital bedside. Nowhere near.

***

They’d been living together for nearly a year. Mycroft had suggested Greg move in almost immediately, and he’d accepted with very little hesitation. Apparently quick relationship progression was a Holmsian trait, if John moving in the day after meeting Sherlock was anything to go by. But Mycroft’s proposal had made the most logical sense, of course it had.

His flat was larger and in a better part of town. It wasn’t bogged down with memories of a marriage gone sour. And Greg hadn’t lived on his own in more than twenty years -- it would be a pretty rough adjustment going back to that. Truth be told, even though his relationship with Mycroft had been very new to him and he was still sussing the man out, the idea of waking up in bed next to someone who wanted _him_ there was practically a novelty.

He’d never been in a proper relationship with a man. When he was young enough to have flings and dates and one-night-stands, being bisexual hadn’t exactly been something to flaunt, so his dalliances with men had been swept up into the closet in favor of a more socially acceptable relationship with a woman. And marrying Lori had seemed like a fantastic idea when he was 25, so he’d gone ahead and done it.

Though apparently when they’d gone through the bits in their vows about being together ‘til death, they’d actually only meant approximately 20 years. Barely. Not to mention that the last 5 or so had just been an absolute mockery of the institution of marriage. 

It was better now. _He_ was better now, with Mycroft. They each understood that sometimes The Work required undivided attention and that there were times when one or the other might be caught at the office for days on end. And for all the times Sherlock had joked about the fact that his brother simply _was_ the British government, Greg’s jaw had gone a bit slack when he’d been asked to sign an Official Secrets agreement. And there were still so many things he didn’t know. Couldn’t know.

The divide came to be about four months ago, when things started getting a bit more secretive than they usually were in Mycroft’s day to day. Hushed conversations, clipped phone calls that would end abruptly if Greg entered the room. And he knew, logically, that Mycroft wouldn’t cheat. _Why_ would he cheat? He constantly reminded Greg what a prize he was, how lovely it was to have him around -- while simultaneously reminding the detective inspector that Holmeses were men of solitude, and that those who were invited to the inner circle were scarce, and cherished.

He sometimes wanted to ring John for a pint, but he couldn’t get up the nerve. They had barely spoken in the almost-two years since Sherlock’s suicide. Greg didn’t know if John still held him partially responsible.

Mycroft knew that Greg did.

But still, Greg coped with the growing distance -- it was all down to business. Mycroft was an important man. 

The bed was cold when he woke more frequently than not, even when he’d gone to sleep with the sheets in the same state. There were nights when he’d sit at the vast table in the dining room picking noodles from takeaway containers and he’d wonder if that was how Lori had felt -- staring at empty space, waiting for someone to come home and fill it. He couldn’t imagine that he would suddenly start looking for _anyone_ to fill the void, the way Lori had done. Certainly not. It was Mycroft’s home they shared, it was Mycroft he wanted warming the bed and sharing takeaway and fighting for the remote. (Mycroft, as a rule, fought for the remote in order to turn _off_ the telly, not to have his choice on the screen.)

Time went on, and empty-bed nights turned into empty-bed weeks. It was to be expected, on occasion. In moderation. Greg could understand that their schedules didn’t always sync. When he was busy at the Yard, he knew there were nights when Mycroft went to bed alone and woke the same -- but he’d at least crawled between the sheets at some point in the night. Greg always woke to an undisturbed pillow.

And Mycroft hated to text, so updates about his status were minimal. There didn’t seem to be an exact reason for it, but given how many text messages Greg had received from Sherlock during their acquaintance and how it had made him want to disable that feature on his phone, he wondered if it had something to do with the late consulting detective and his quick fingers. So Greg had to make do with succinct phone calls here and there -- “Sorry, won’t be home tonight” or “I’ll be at Diogenes late. Do sleep well” and even once “Traversing to the continent for the long weekend -- possibly unreachable, didn’t want you to be concerned.”

Of course, Greg couldn’t know what most of these trips and meetings were about. All he knew was that Mycroft Holmes, who hated getting his hands dirty, was suddenly doing some sort of field work -- and possibly avoiding Gregory Lestrade like a bad penny.

Until two weeks ago, when Mycroft had been home for the first time in weeks for long enough to do more than just give Greg a passing glance.

At first, Greg had thought he was a burglar.

He was arriving home rather late himself, and he’d splurged on a black cab to get him there quickly. A heaping pile of paperwork was already waiting for him first thing the following morning, and he was looking forward to a long soak in Mycroft’s gigantic bath -- and he was startled to hear movement in the bedroom as he reached the top of the stairs.

Rustling, like someone was digging through the wardrobe.

Greg approached the ajar bedroom door slowly, only pushing it an inch or so in order to better see where the noise was coming from.

Mycroft had stopped perusing his various suits and was standing between the open doors contemplating his choices. There was an open garment bag laid out on the bed, a carry-on suitcase next to it. Another jaunt to the continent, then? Greg had never actually seen the man pack his own case. It was usually up to one of his lackeys to take care of.

“Fancy seeing you here, stranger.” He was going for a light tone, but it likely came out as passive aggression.

Mycroft turned and regarded him curiously, as if he were the stranger. “I thought you’d still be at the Yard.” He looked genuinely surprised, which momentarily gave Greg pause. Was he supposed to be out? Had there been a detail in place to keep him from getting home? Would Mycroft actually go to such lengths to _avoid_ seeing him in their own flat?

“I may have pushed a few things off to tomorrow in favor of coming home for a soak,” Greg explained, though he wasn’t sure why he had to excuse his presence. They lived together. The place was, technically, partially his as well. The half of his bed covered by the case and garment bag was _his_.

Mycroft’s attention shifted back to the wardrobe, from which he drew a grey pin-striped suit and placed on top of the garment bag before addressing Greg again. “Don’t let me keep you from your bath. I’m certain you deserve some relaxation after a long day at the Yard.”

Of course he was going to get the brush off. Mycroft wasn’t even going to bother saying where he was going or for how long, which probably meant that he couldn’t actually tell Greg. _Or,_ he didn’t even know himself. Which was incredibly rare, but still possible.

A small box about the size of a watch was pulled from the pocket of one closet and quickly relocated to the case on the bed. The luggage was nearly empty, but still Mycroft zipped it shut hastily and pulled it from the bed, lifting it to check the weight.

“Planning on bringing back souvenirs?” Greg asked, leaning against the door frame.

“One might say something to that effect.” Mycroft didn’t look up as he settled his suit into the garment bag. 

“Are you planning on acknowledging the fact that you’re leaving for some span of time or were you hoping to just disappear without a word again?” Again, there was more aggression behind his words than he would have expected, but really, it was getting ridiculous. He hadn’t signed on for this. A week here and there, a few days down, but not literal months of near nothing.

Mycroft sighed, of course he did. After a moment, he pinched the bridge of his nose contemplatively. “Gregory, I wish there was something I could--”

“No.” Greg held up his hands, partially in understanding, but mostly as a cut off for the excuses. “It’s fine. Go where you go, get back when you get back. Have a nice _trip._ ”

He walked into their en suite bathroom and may or may not have slammed the door behind him. Mycroft, proper as he was, didn’t bother trying to console Greg during his wobbly. The water ran, expensive bubbles were poured, and an epic sulking soak commenced. Water cooled, he ran it again. And again. He waited for the knock on the door that he knew wouldn’t come.

When he finally emerged, Mycroft was gone.

***

“How is he?”

Greg hadn’t even heard the door open, so he was surprised to see John Watson walking toward him with two paper cups in hand. Some detective he made.

“He’ll live,” Greg said, looking back at Mycroft. “At least long enough to get home, where I’m promptly going to kill him. For now, he’s sleeping off the anesthesia.” He gave John a strained smile and accepted the paper cup. He wasn’t sure if it was tea or coffee, but he knew at this stage it didn’t matter. He wasn’t taking proper care of himself. Couldn’t; not when there was Mycroft’s care to manage.

“I saw Anthea,” he made a single-handed air quote in the air at her name. “She was talking to a doctor, then back on her phone tapping away. Probably reporting back to the Queen or something.” He sipped his cup and raised his eyes from Greg to the patient.

“How’s--”

“He’ll also live.” John sighed. “It’s... a novel idea, really. I was watching him sleep and he was just... breathing, Greg. I--I didn’t think that was something I would ever see again. I don’t know what it’s going to be like when he’s awake. Watching him deduce the last two years might just knock me on my arse from sheer shock. I’m already wondering what his first dig at Mary will be.”

“I didn’t actually believe them, you know? The call.” Greg looked back at the steady rise and fall of Mycroft’s chest. “He’s been gone for two weeks, but I never thought it was for something like...” He wasn’t sure what to compare their current situation to. It was all pretty unprecedented in Greg’s life, and he hoped to never repeat a single piece.

John paced around for a moment before setting his cup down on a small visitor’s table. “He knew the whole time, you know. No way he didn’t.” The doctor nodded his head toward Mycroft and wetted his lips. “Sherlock had connections, but he couldn’t have faked the DNA. He couldn’t have filled an empty grave.” Fists clenched, John added, “I can’t decide whether I want to punch him when he wakes up or just smother him with a pillow now and get it over with.”

A laugh escaped Greg, because he knew John wasn’t serious, and he tore his eyes away from his lover for a moment. “With a broken leg, cracked pelvis, four broken fingers, a shattered collarbone and septicemia, I doubt he’s going to do much to fight back. He’s proud enough that he might just take the smothering rather than face the physical therapy.”

“Never mind,” John said, picking up his paper cup again. “He’ll face enough punishment for what he’s done when he finds out he can’t wear a suit to therapy.”

“I think he’d let England burn before he let anyone outside of these walls see him in anything less than three pieces.” It was nice to joke -- it had been so long since Greg had fallen into an almost playful conversation. Mycroft’s tortured bedside was likely an inappropriate place for it to happen, but there had to be a lightness. He couldn’t just sit and wait anymore, weighed down.

John looked down into his empty cup. “Don’t know what it’ll be like when they wake up.”

“What’s the first thing you’re going to ask him?”

“Why.” No hesitation. 

Greg’s was identical. He looked back at Mycroft, steady breaths, steady beeps and wondered.

_Why?_

***

He waited until they were home. He waited until Mycroft had been helped up to their bedroom by a team of four private nurses who had shooed Greg away. He waited until they’d both had a cup of tea in separate rooms. Different lifetimes.

He waited until the nurses left Mycroft alone with a button to push for the pain, and a button to push for assistance. He waited until the sun went down.

He waited until he was sure he was going to burst from the weight of missing answers.

He waited until he couldn’t anymore, and then he walked up the stairs. Down again. Up again, back down. Up. Down. Up.

Standing outside of their bedroom suddenly felt like forbidden territory. Mycroft hadn’t looked at him when they were coming home, hadn’t raised his eyes from his knees in the private car. For a man who was always so in control and commanding, it was eery to see the quiet man, the broken man.

He waited, considered knocking, then pressed the door into the room, ignoring its impossible weight.

Mycroft was propped up on Greg’s side of the bed -- staring at the door as though he’d been the one waiting all along.

“You knew it was going to be dangerous,” Greg started, not even bothering to preface this conversation. “You never go into anything half-arsed. You knew full well that this was something that was going to be over your head. Digging your brother out of fuck-if-I-know where and whatever sort of trouble and you _knew it_ but you didn’t even say _goodbye_ , Mycroft.” He hadn’t planned this outburst very well. He’d had almost six hours of pacing and tutting and pulling at his hair and he had _not even bothered_ to script his shouting. “You let me walk into that bathroom and slam the door on you. You let me go and take a fucking _bubble bath_ while you zipped up the suit you bloody well could’ve been killed in.”

He paused for breath, for any reaction from the man on the bed. None, on both counts.  
“I don’t know what you expected to come home to, or if you even expected to, but thinking that I could just let this go as another one of your little British government escapades is beyond wrong. Damn queen and country, sod your brother. You’ve left me in the dark for months-- _years_ , frankly--and I don’t know what you expect from me after this--”

“I did not expect... that you would be here when I returned.” Quietly -- nowhere near the volume Greg had nearly been shouting at. But the words hit him square in the stomach, more forcefully than any of Greg’s speech had been thrown. The jaggedness of it must’ve shown on his face, because Mycroft went on, “I did not anticipate that this was something one could forgive, especially when it requires your forgiveness two-fold.”

Mycroft patted his side of the bed in invitation, slowly, though Greg wasn’t sure if it was due to hesitance or the general soreness of his limbs. Possibly against his better judgement, Greg moved forward slowly and sat himself at the edge, letting some distance linger.

“I admit that I have been--how can I say this? I have been, essentially, weaning myself of your presence, comfort, and company of late in order to distance myself. I knew that my brother could and would likely require urgent assistance at the drop of a pin, and I deduced that he would only request my help in the most dire of situations. Given the... magnitude of this betrayal of your trust, I could not imagine that you would wish remain in my acquaintance--let alone my bed--once I returned.” He paused and gave this a moment to sink into the air, anchoring the pair of them into here and now. 

“Gregory, you have become very precious to me in our time together.” A slight turn of his body caused a grimace, and Greg moved further onto the bed to reach out, but a small shake of Mycroft’s head kept him back. “I think that seeing you the night I left made it harder to go because you reminded me of what I might not come home to. Which, in turn, made me more determined to return, even if it was, as you can see, to sully your side of the bed in an effort to stay close to you.”

“You could’ve had the whole Goddamn bed, you pompous wanker,” Greg said, wishing he could thwack the injured man with a pillow. “I was like a swooning maiden, for Christ’s sake. Sleeping on your side of the bed, using your bloody shampoo. I went full-on schoolgirl and you’re on the other end trying to keep your distance. We’re a right sorry pair if one ever existed. Cor.” He scrubbed his face in his hands. “I didn’t know what you’d done, when I got the call. No idea. But all I could think was that the last thing I’d said to you was ‘have a nice trip’ like you were going to some Italian villa without me. A fucking holiday. And I knew you weren’t. Despite what your brother may think, I’m not stupid. I just... I had time to think, when you were getting your bones pinned back together. When they were setting everything to rights, I was telling myself I couldn’t forgive you for this. We couldn’t make _this_ right.” He paused for a moment, sighed. “And then I saw you and suddenly I was telling myself that it was a lie.”

He reached out for the hand that wasn’t bundled up in a sling. “I’m here for you to come home to. I have been since the start.” Greg squeezed the hand he held gently, waited for the weak returning squeeze. “We’ve both got terribly busy lives -- and sometimes we’ve got to keep secrets. But I’ll wait here for you if you’ll do the same for me.”

“If you hadn’t been here--”

“No.” Greg cut him off, finally pulling himself fully up onto the bed, shoes and all. He scooted himself closer to Mycroft, careful not to disturb the bed too much for fear of rattling his lover’s injuries. “It wasn’t even a possibility, Mycroft, not with the way we’d left things. I may have had moments when I told myself, maybe--”

“--I would have waited forever,” Mycroft finished, ignoring him, up until Greg’s eyes grew wide and round. “I have done a lot of things in my life that warrant recognition that I do not wish to receive, Gregory. But to me, the only thing of note is that I have somehow managed to bring you into my life and keep you here. Had you not been there when I woke up in that hospital room, I would have convinced myself that if I waited, you would return. I had prepared for that eventual outcome.”

“And when you woke up and I was there?”

“I believed myself to be imaging it. The same way I still believe that I was dreaming when I heard you tell John Watson that smothering me might save me the humiliation of having to be seen wearing common clothes.”

Greg smiled. Mycroft had woken up briefly a few hours after that conversation and muttered something about needing Anthea to bring him a navy tie and to burn every pair of trainers in London, but he hadn’t thought Mycroft could hear his conversation with John.

“I’m glad I didn’t keep you waiting, then,” Greg said, leaning back into the pillows and getting as close to Mycroft as he dared without causing discomfort. He didn’t trust himself to fall asleep, but he was reasonably certain Mycroft was likely going to be able to rest peacefully now that they had had their talk. The Talk, really.

There would be time for more than this, more than a bit of broken cuddling from two sides of the bed. But for now, that could wait.


End file.
